The speaker runs through a list of how different men receive his poetry: some admire the strange vein and pleasing strain, others accuse him of merely feigning his passion’s pain. Then he shrugs it all off. He does not care who commends or discommends his verse. What moves him is the simple act of rehearsing his sorrows and, above all, the hope that his beloved might glimpse his love inside the lines. Public opinion grows weightless next to that private audience. The sonnet’s final couplet lands with quiet, unshakable confidence: as long as he writes in praise of her, he cannot write badly. Every word, because it is offered to her, feels true and justified. The mood is a tender blend of indifference to the crowd’s noise and devoted intimacy, a poet finding complete comfort in a single, all-important reader.
Sonnet XLII: Some Men There Be — Summary
Some men there be which like my method well And much commend the strangeness of my vein; Some say I have a passing pleasing strain; Some say that im my humor I excel; Some, who not kindly relish my conceit, They say, as poets do, I use to feign, And in bare words paint out my passion's pain. Thus sundry men their sundry words repeat; I pass not, I, how men affected be, Nor who commends or discommends my verse; It pleaseth me, if I my woes rehearse, And in my lines if she my love may see. Only my comfort still consists in this, Writing her praise I cannot write amiss.